No doubt because I don't want to; it makes me
wretched." She half turned in his arms, pressed hard against him, and
plunged her gaze into his.
"It often seems strange to me," he admitted, caught in the three-fold
difficulty of the truth, his feeling for her, and a complete niceness
in whatever touched Fanny. He attempted to explain. "Everything about
my home is perfect, but, at times, and I can't make out why, it doesn't
seem mine. It might, from the way I feel, belong to another man--the
house and Fanny and the children. I stand in it all as though I had
suddenly waked from a dream, as though what were around me had lasted
somehow from the dream into life." He repeated to her the process of
his thoughts, feelings, at once so familiar and inexplicable.
She wasn't, he found, deeply interested in his explanation; she was
careless of anything but the immediate present. Savina never mentioned
William Grove. Animated by countless tender inventive expressions of
her passion, she gave the impression of listening to the inflections of
his voice rather than attending, considering, its meanings. She was
more fully surrendered to the situation than he. The disorganized
fragments of a hundred ideas and hints poured in rapid succession, back
of his dominating emotion, through Lee's brain. He lost himself only in
waves--the similitude to the sea persisted--regular, obliterating, but
separate.
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